


From the Snare of the Devil

by Malarkay



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Demonic Possession, Gen, Inspired by Fox's The Exorcist, Minor Inspiration Drawn from The Rite, No Enchanted Forest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 19:05:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8459422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malarkay/pseuds/Malarkay
Summary: When Marcas Gold loses his son and his marriage, he falls into a depression he just can't shake.  But is that all it is, or are there darker forces at work?





	

_Hey. When did you last talk to Marcas?_

_Three days ago. Why?_

_He’s not answering his phone or responding to my texts._

_You saw him yesterday though, right?_

_No, I didn’t make it over there yesterday. Grace was home sick from school. Some 24 hour thing._

_Well, I’m about to leave the office. I’ll stop by and check on him._

_Okay. Good._

_I ran into Archie at lunch, by the way. He missed another session this morning._

_Doesn’t that violate doctor-patient confidentiality?_

_I’m the mayor!_

_I repeat, doesn’t that violate doctor-patient confidentiality?_

_I don’t know and I don’t care._

_Regina, you need to stop bullying Archie into telling you things. You’re going to get him into trouble._

_Stop lecturing me. When Marcas starts acting like a big boy again, I won’t have to keep tabs on him like this._

_Harsh. He’s been through a lot this year._

_And he’s getting worse, not better._

_Okay, well, I don’t know what to tell you. Grief is a messy process. Isn’t that what Archie says?_

_Yes._

_Do you want me to come over, too? Grace is feeling better, and is going over to a friend’s house for dinner._

_If you want to._

_Yeah. Just in case._

_Just in case? That’s morbid. I’m sure he’s fine._

_Alright, but I’ll still stop by. See you over there._

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Marcas Gold was lying on his couch, staring up at the ceiling. It wasn’t what he was supposed to be doing. He had told himself that he was going to have a productive day. It had started out promising enough. He had washed the dishes that had been dirtying up his sink since Regina’s last visit. He had done a load of his laundry, though the too small task only served to remind him that he probably needed to change his clothes more often. It was while he was folding his clothes that his eyes settled on the small hamper that had been gathering dust in the laundry room for the past six months. 

He and Mila had studiously ignored its presence for two months after Niall’s death. And then Mila had left. Left him. Left Storybrooke. He’d been served divorce papers soon after. Irreconcilable differences. He supposed those were kinder grounds for divorce than ‘I blame you for the death of our son.’ They had kept separate bank accounts. The house had been his before they were married. His father, having grown tired of fatherhood, had shipped him off to America when he was nine. He had lived with his aunt and her friend, who had willed him the house when they passed. He owned some rental properties, as well, which had been acquired after the marriage. Each month, most of that money had been reinvested into the business, with the rest being put toward household expenses and Niall’s college fund. Now it was allowing him to stay afloat after quitting his job as a lawyer. Mila was entitled to half of that income, but she had made it clear that she wanted nothing from him but to sign the papers without protest. It was a clean break. He should be grateful. Dr. Hopper wanted him to begin each day by reflecting on something he was grateful for. He should add that to the list, but he was still too hurt to muster up any gratitude toward her. 

He had kept the tradition of ignoring the laundry hamper after the divorce. But now, looking at it, he thought today was the day to stop avoiding it. The rest of Niall’s things had already been donated to St. Nicholas of Myra Roman Catholic Church at the prompting of his friends. He should wash and donate these, as well. He had taken each article of clothing out of the hamper one by one, shaking them out before dropping them into the wash. A pair of jeans. His school uniform. Some pajamas. When he got to his Cub Scouts t-shirt, proudly emblazoned with his Pack number, he had stared at it for a long time. Then he had broken down. He didn’t know how long he had cried, kneeling on the floor of the laundry room, clutching his son’s shirt to his chest. Eventually he had moved to the living room, collapsing onto the couch and hugging the shirt to him. His phone had rung half a dozen times since then, and chimed at least as many times to notify him that he had texts to read, but he ignored it.

‘Pathetic. Letting your life pass you by as you lay here moping over a dead boy’s shirt.’

The intrusive thought broke through the white noise of his grief. It was nothing new. He’d been getting them with increasing regularity over the past month. He kept meaning to bring that up with Dr. Hopper, but for whatever reason, it’d slip his mind by the time a session rolled around. 

Or he’d simply skip the session altogether. That had been happening with increasing regularity over the last month, too. Like today. He closed his eyes with a sigh. He had meant to go. He really had. But then he’d found the shirt, and - no. He needed to stop making excuses. Intent was meaningless. Only actions mattered. He’d call Archie in the morning, apologize, and reschedule. 

‘Lies.’

“Shut up.”

‘Those friends of yours who you keep ignoring are coming. Pull yourself together.’

He blinked. He sat up, smoothing out his shirt as if doing so wasn’t a lost cause, and stuffed Niall’s shirt behind a pillow as the click of the front door unlocking announced either the arrival of Regina or Jefferson. He thought it strange, that he had known that someone was here, but he brushed it aside. No doubt his subconscious had simply registered the sound of their car pulling up to the front of the house. He heard the front door open and shut, and then the click of heels coming down the hall. After a moment, Regina stepped into the room, followed closely by Jefferson. He must have really screwed up somehow to earn a visit from both of them.

When they caught sight of him, Jefferson’s face relaxed in relief while Regina’s hardened into a scowl. 

They began speaking at the same time.

“Oh good, you’re alive!”

“What the hell have you been doing all day that was so important you couldn’t answer your phone or keep your appointments?”

“I’ve, uh, been cleaning.”

“Cleaning?” Regina took a cursory look around the place, before turning back to him derisively. “Well you haven’t been doing a very good job of it, have you?”

“Regina,” Jefferson began soothingly.

“Well excuse me,” Marcas said defensively. “I wasn’t aware I would be receiving royalty this evening!”

“Don’t you get sarcastic with me! Jefferson thought you were dead!”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? You don’t respond to any texts! You miss your appointment with Archie! Again! We find you moping in the dark like a moody teenager!”

Now that she mentioned it, it was getting rather dim. Jefferson took that as a cue to circulate around the room, turning on lamps. It did nothing to lighten the mood.

“How do you even know I missed my appointment with Archie?”

Jefferson threw a knowing look Regina’s way, and she rolled her eyes. “Look, someone has to be the responsible one here!”

“Stay out of my business!”

“You ungrateful little-”

“What Regina is trying to say is that she is worried about you,” Jefferson cut in before things got too out of hand. “We both are. She ran into Archie at Granny’s, and he mentioned you missed your appointment.”

“He has no right to do that! What else has he told you?”

“Nothing!”

“Really?” 

“Yes, really!”

He sat back, crossing his arms. He didn’t want to doubt her word, but she had no right to inquire after him like he was a child. 

“Don’t sulk. It doesn’t become you.”

“I’m not sulking.”

She scoffed, studying him for a silent moment. “You look terrible. Did something happen?”

“No.”

She snatched up a pillow, swatting him over the head with it. “Don’t lie to me! I-” She cut off as she spotted the shirt she had uncovered. Tossing the pillow aside, she reached for it. He tried to beat her to it, but she was faster, snatching it up and dancing away from the couch. When she saw what it was, her expression finally softened. “I thought you had given away all of his things.”

“There were a few things left, in the laundry.”

“Well, we’ll get them washed tonight, and sent over to Saint Nicholas’. You okay with that?”

“Not this one.”

“Marcas.”

“Not this one!”

“Isn’t there something else you can keep? Why this? Why do that to yourself?”

He looked down at his lap. He didn’t have an answer for her.

“You don’t need that kind of reminder,” she pressed. “Keep something that reminds you of the good times.”

He still didn’t answer, but that didn’t deter her. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He laughed bitterly, still not looking up.

He could hear the frown in her voice when she continued. “It wasn’t. I don’t care what that bitch said. You did everything you could.”

He dashed away a tear that was threatening to fall before it had the chance, looking up. “I know that’s what the doctors say, but if I had gotten him to them faster, maybe it would have made a difference.”

“It wouldn’t. We’ve been over this. Listen, we can’t keep having this conversation. You just need to accept that there was nothing more you could have done, and move on.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she wouldn’t let him get a word in edgewise. “I’m going to start dinner. Marcas, go shower and put on some clean clothes. Jefferson, you finish up the laundry.” She shoved the Cub Scouts shirt into Jefferson’s hands before moving into the kitchen, pulling open the fridge. “Is this the lasagna I left you days ago? You haven’t even touched it!” She pulled it out, setting it on the counter and preheating the oven. “When was the last time you ate something?” she demanded, fixing him with a stern glare through the pass-through. He shrugged and she shook her head, annoyed, “Just go shower. And shave!”

He did as he was told, showering and shaving before pulling on fresh clothes and making his way back to the kitchen. 

“You’re out of basically everything,” Regina greeted him. “Can you run to the store and pick up some salad and garlic bread?”

“Can’t Jefferson go?” he asked. He didn’t really feel like venturing out into public.

“I’m not your errand boy,” Jefferson called good-naturedly from the living room, where he had taken up residence on the couch and turned on a baseball game. “Besides, I did laundry.”

“Regina told you not to go, didn’t she?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny.”

“You hate baseball.”

“What? No, I am enthralled!”

He looked to Regina, who crossed her arms. “It will do you good to get out of the house at least once today.”

“Fine,” he said. He grabbed his coat, wallet, and keys. “I’ll be back shortly.” 

The drive to the store didn’t take long. He snagged a prime parking spot and headed inside. He picked up the things Regina had asked for, as well as a few other staples he knew he was out of. He added a carton of ice cream for good measure, just in case anyone felt like dessert. The checkout line was blessedly short, and he was out the door fairly quickly.

“Spare some change?”

He paused by the curb, looking down at the panhandler who had spoken. He didn’t know his name. He had inquired after it a few times before when he stopped to speak to him or give him money, but the man always evaded the question, so he had finally taken the hint and stopped asking. The man was older than him, his hair a graying brown, longish and unkempt. He had a blue-eyed gaze that seemed to bore right through you, and his speech was slow and strongly enunciated. His intensity was a bit off-putting at first, but he seemed like a genuinely nice guy once you got to know him. 

“Sorry, I don’t have much today. I haven’t been to the bank in a while.” He pulled out a five, the only cash he had, and handed it over.

“Never apologize, Marc. You’re a generous soul. God bless ya,” the panhandler said with a strange little smirk quirking one corner of his mouth. “Have time to sit a spell?”

Marcas shrugged, taking a seat next to the panhandler. “I’m sorry, I can only stay for a minute or two.”

“There you go apologizing again,” the man laughed. “How are you doing, today? You look a little rough.”

He shrugged. “I found Niall’s Cub Scouts shirt, today. It hit me pretty hard.”

“I can’t even imagine.”

Marcas nodded, looking down at his shoes. “No one should have to.”

“I agree. Outliving a child, that’s one of the hardest things a person could be asked to do.”

“I’m just so angry.”

“At who?”

“Myself.”

“Why? Why not the doctors?”

“They did everything they could.”

“And what about you? What do you think you could have done differently?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know because there’s nothing you could have done. Your anger is misguided.”

“You’re saying I shouldn’t be angry?”

“Not at all. Be angry. Just be angry at the right person.”

“And who’s that?”

“God?” the man offered with a shrug.

Marcas balked at responding, but that didn’t seem to deter the man.

“Are you a believer?”

“I am.”

“Practicing?”

“Yes and no. I haven’t gone to church much since the divorce.”

“I don’t blame you. What you’ve been through, it’d shake any man’s faith,” the panhandler said, clasping his shoulder tightly.

Marcas merely nodded.

They sat in companionable silence for a minute or two, before Marcas spoke again. “It’s getting late, I really should be going.”

“Of course, of course. I’ll be seeing you.”

Marcas nodded again and stood. He didn’t know why, but he felt calmer on the drive back to his house. He enjoyed talking to the panhandler. He felt freer speaking his mind with him than he did with Regina, or Jefferson, or even Dr. Hopper. Maybe it was because the man didn’t have any skin in the game. He always felt as if the others were just telling him what he wanted to hear, to make him feel better. But the panhandler had no reason to sugarcoat anything. 

Entering his home, he found Jefferson setting the table while Regina pulled the lasagna out of the oven. 

“Took you long enough,” she said.

“I wasn’t gone that long. I stopped to talk to that panhandler.”

“What panhandler?”

“I don’t know his name. You must have seen him out in front of the store, before. He’s there a lot,” he said, tossing the garlic bread into the oven to heat before putting away the rest of the groceries.

At both Regina and Jefferson’s blank looks, he clarified, “Looks like an older, more disheveled version of the actor who played Billy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?”

“Nah, not picturing it,” Jefferson said.

“He’s there all the time,” Marcas said, exasperated. 

“Well then he’s there against city ordinance.”

“That might explain why you’ve never seen him, at least. Maybe he knows to avoid you, Madame Mayor.”

Regina huffed. “You didn’t give him money, did you?”

“I always give him money.”

“Well don’t! It’ll just encourage him.”

He frowned and she rolled her eyes. “Don’t give me that look. I’m not heartless. I just want what’s best for Storybrooke. He could go to the church, or the shelter the nuns run. There are plenty of resources in town to help him without him having to resort to begging outside a grocery store.”

“Well I’ll be sure to suggest that to him, next time I see him.”

“You do that. Oh, by the way, Archie called while you were out. I took the liberty of rescheduling your appointment for tomorrow at ten.”

“Regina!” 

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It was the den’s first overnighter away from the Pack, a weekend of hiking and camping in the Adirondacks, and Niall was beyond excited. Marcas’ schedule was unpredictable. It prevented him from serving as den leader, which had disappointed them both at first. But he volunteered whenever he could, which included this trip. That was just as well. The more parents chaperoning, the better, and Mila wasn’t much for tent camping. 

They had made it to their campsite by late afternoon, and the place was a bustle of activity. Tents were being pitched, food was being prepped, and firewood was being gathered. Niall and another boy had volunteered for firewood duty.

“Alright, don’t wander too far.”

“We won’t!”

“Stay within ear shot.”

“We will!”

“Within sight is even better.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Be careful.”

“Always!”

“Dead wood only, remember.”

“Pop, I know!”

“Okay, okay.”

The two boys raced off. Marcas had followed at a bit of a distance, wanting to give them their autonomy, but unwilling to let them out of his sight. 

“Webelos are neat! They can’t be beat! So let’s give a yell! Webelos are swell!” the boys chanted as they went, so that the adults would know they were still nearby. They made quick work of it, and each had an armful of firewood in no time. They had started back toward camp to drop off what they had gathered when Niall spotted a particularly large stick. He bent to pick it up, and the next thing Marcas knew, Niall screamed, dropping his firewood and clutching his hand to his chest. 

Marcas ran to him, “What happened? What’s wrong?” 

As he got closer, he noticed what the problem was. A banded rattlesnake was coiled up defensively, poised to strike again. He quickly scooped Niall up in one arm, grabbing the other boy by the hand and dragging him away from the snake. 

Niall was crying as he rushed them back toward camp. “I didn’t see it! It didn’t rattle! It was supposed to rattle,” he babbled

“It’s okay,” he reassured him. “It’ll be okay.”

Back in camp, he deposited Niall onto one of the fallen logs that were being used as benches around the fire pit. The den leader rushed over, “What happened?”

“He was bitten by a rattlesnake! Please, call the ranger station; he needs to get to the hospital! Let us see it, Niall.”

Niall held out a shaky hand. There, standing out livid against his pale wrist, were two fang marks trickling blood. The den leader turned pale, himself, and pulled out his phone.

Marcas pulled a still sniffling Niall into a hug. “Shhh, shhhh, we’re going to get you help, okay? Keep your wrist down to your side and just relax.”

“Am I gonna die?” he asked in a small, tremulous voice.

“No - no, of course not! They have medicine that can help. Antivenom, remember? A-and if we’re lucky, it was a dry bite and you won’t even need it.”

Much of the remainder of that day was a blur. He held tight to Niall while they waited for help, and eventually his boy was medevaced to the nearest hospital. He remembered waiting in the ER waiting room. He wasn’t allowed back with Niall while the doctors worked on him. They confirmed that envenomation had occurred, and that Niall hadn’t responded to the first vial of antivenom, so they were injecting a second. They claimed that wasn’t unusual. There apparently wasn’t a limit to the number of vials they could use, and they would keep trying until the job was done.

And then an announcement came over the loudspeaker. “Code White, ER, trauma bay three. Code White, ER, trauma bay three.”

He frowned. Wasn’t that where they had Niall? He walked up to the registration desk. “Excuse me? What does that mean? What’s a Code White?”

The two receptionists exchanged glances. “Sir,” one of them began. “I’m going to ask you to take a seat and a doctor will be out to speak with you when they can.”

He stayed frozen in place for a moment as her words sank in. Her non-answer was all the answer he needed, wasn’t it? He started pacing around the waiting room, unable to just sit there, cold dread settling in the pit of his stomach. About an hour later, a doctor came out and ushered him into a consultation room.

“I’m so sorry.”

Niall was one of the rare unlucky few who turned out to be allergic to rattlesnake venom. He had had a severe reaction and went into cardiac arrest. Staff had tried for almost an hour to resuscitate him, but they had been unsuccessful. 

He felt like he couldn’t breathe. He rushed to the nearest bathroom and locked himself inside. Moving to the sink, he splashed water on his face before looking up into the mirror. He jerked back as he saw not himself, but an inhuman monster reflected back at him, with wild hair, scaly skin, and cold reptilian eyes.

“And that’s when I woke up,” he told Dr. Hopper.

“Well. That seems to be a fairly straightforward dream. You seeing yourself as the snake represents the internalized guilt you feel over Niall’s death.”

Marcas nodded. He had guessed as much, himself.

“My question is why? You were doing so well up until a month ago. You were beginning to accept that his death wasn’t your fault. We were making progress. Did something happen?”

Marcas thought back, but couldn’t put a finger on any particular trigger to his setback. He shook his head no.

“Have you been taking your medication?”

He nodded.

“Every day?”

“Yes, doctor,” he said, bristling. He really did hate being treated like a child.

“It’s my job to ask these questions,” Dr. Hopper said, not quite apologetically.

“I know.”

“Alright. What is it, exactly, about that day that you feel responsible for?”

“I lied to him. I told him he was going to be okay.”

“You thought he would be. What were you supposed to tell him?”

He shrugged. 

“I shouldn’t have let him go off on his own to gather firewood.”

“You had him in sight the entire time.”

“I shouldn’t have let him go on the trip in the first place.”

Dr. Hopper peered at him with just a hint of exasperation tinting his neutral expression. “Were you supposed to lock him in the house for the rest of his life to keep him safe?”

“Yes!”

“Marcas, life is inherently risky. You or I could walk out that door right now and be hit by a bus. But we shouldn’t let that stop us from walking out the door. You can’t let fear of what might happen stop you from living your life. Niall was a bright, curious boy who loved the outdoors. Do you really think you’d have been doing him any favors by keeping him locked away like a trinket?”

“No?”

“No.”

Silence reigned.

“What else is bothering you?” Dr. Hopper asked, after it became clear that Marcas wasn’t going to speak unprompted.

“He died alone.”

“Ah. Are you upset by that on his behalf, or your own?”

“Both.”

“Because you didn’t get to say goodbye while he was still alive.”

“Yes.”

“I know that’s difficult; and that regret is one that is likely to plague you for the rest of your life. I won’t pretend otherwise. But he knew that you loved him?”

“Of course. I told him every day.”

“And you know that he loved you?”

“Yes.”

“At the end of the day, that’s what matters. Hold onto that.”

Marcas sighed and stared out the window, letting the last few minutes of their session tick away. When Dr. Hopper announced that their session was up, he turned back to him. “I’m sorry I made you work on a Saturday.”

“That’s quite alright. I’m glad you came.”

“Yeah.”

“Will I see you at Mass, tomorrow?”

“I haven’t decided, yet,” he claimed, and they both knew that meant no.

“You should consider it. I know it used to be important to you, and it might do you good to start reclaiming your life. And to get out of the house more.”

“I just don’t know how I feel about it anymore.”

“Because?”

Marcas felt a flare of temper. “Because what kind of God kills a 10-year-old boy?” he asked, voice rising. The sound of something breaking accompanied his question, and they both looked over to a side table, startled to find that a pot that held one of his plants had shattered.

“How strange! It must have had a crack I never noticed before.” 

“Do you need help cleaning that up?”

“No, thank you. I’ll take care of it,” Archie answered, still staring at the broken pot in bewilderment.

After a moment, Archie turned back to Marcas. “I understand your anger, but maybe the best place to find the answer to your question is church. Just think on it. You’ve been missed.”

“Maybe,” he conceded. “I’ll think about it.”

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“Archie thinks I should go to church tomorrow,” Marcas mentioned, when Regina called him later that afternoon.

“Okay,” she said. “And what do you think?”

“I might as well.”

“You don’t sound very enthused.”

“I’m not. But Archie made a good point about it being a good way for me to get out of the house.”

“I can’t argue with that. Do you want me to pick you up?”

“Is that your way of making sure I actually follow through?”

“Well, I would be going out of my way, so I would be very annoyed if I got to your house only to find that you had changed your mind.”

“And we wouldn’t want that.”

“So?”

“Alright.”

“I’ll be there by 9:30, then.”

True to her word, she pulled up to his house right on schedule, and he went out to meet her. She eyed him with a smirk. “Feels like forever since I’ve seen you in a suit.”

“It’s been a month and a half, at most.”

“Which for you is forever. Get in.”

They arrived at the church about fifteen minutes before the start of Mass. They stopped at the holy water font, dipping their fingers and crossing themselves as they murmured in unison, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” They walked down the aisle to the front, genuflecting before the tabernacle before taking a seat. As mayor, Regina always liked to sit front and center. 

More people filed in, filling out the first several rows of pews. Storybrooke wasn’t a particularly large town, and as such, it didn’t have a particularly large congregation, which meant the church always looked half empty, even on days when there was a good turnout. There was an unspoken agreement among the attendees to group together in a show of unity, rather than draw attention to the sparseness of the crowd by spreading out. Once everyone had arrived and found their seats the pastor, Father Jones, greeted them and led them through the opening prayer.

Mass was a familiar routine. Prayer. Song. Blessings recited by rote, responses flowing with automatic ease. It was simple, and it served nicely to distract him from his usual thoughts. For forty-five minutes, everything seemed normal again, except he was seated next to Regina instead of Mila and Niall. When it was time for Communion, he lined up to receive it with the others. Afterward, he returned to his seat and settled in to await the final part of the service. 

As the line dwindled, he felt himself grow slightly queasy, and he silently berated himself for not eating something ahead of time. The feeling only grew as the last few communicants returned to their seats, and he swallowed convulsively, tugging at his collar to loosen his tie just a bit. The proximity of the other parishioners, which usually provided a warm sense of community, now felt stifling and claustrophobic, and he was beginning to suspect that he was suffering from more than just a minor dip in blood sugar. 

“Are you alright?” Regina whispered to him, glancing at him with concern. “You’re all sweaty and pale.”

He nodded. It was almost over. He could stick it out until the end.

Of course the concluding rites seemed to drag on forever. He barely heard a word of what was being said over the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears. He hoped he wasn’t having a heart attack. There’d be pain if he was, wouldn’t there? Pain and pressure? He wasn’t experiencing any of that, just an increasingly urgent need to be sick. Finally they were dismissed, and he quickly got up and started weaving his way toward the bathroom. Unfortunately, a line had formed by the time he got there, and he did not have enough time to wait. He headed toward the door, only to be waylaid by Father Jones before he could cross the threshold. 

“Mr. Gold! I’m glad you could make it this week,” he said, extending his hand, but hesitating when he got a better look at him. “Are you alright?”

“Father,” Marcas greeted, bowing his head slightly in lieu of a handshake. “Apologies, I seem to be a bit –” 

He cut himself off as his stomach lurched, gave a quick, apologetic shake of his head, and bolted out the door. As his eyes darted about in search of a trashcan, he could hear the priest good-naturedly quip after him, “Well I hope it wasn’t my homily.” 

Too many people were milling about outside. He couldn’t be sick here. Ditching the trashcan idea, he ran around to the back of the building to find it blessedly deserted. He had just enough time to make it to the street before vomiting some sort of viscous sludge into the gutter. The vile mess was a shade of green so dark it was approaching black, and it reeked of death. 

Feeling eyes on him, he raised his own watery ones to find the blurred figure of a man standing on the other side of the street, watching him. He blinked to clear his vision, but when he looked again, the man was gone. 

He didn’t have time to wonder about that before another wave of nausea hit him and he retched again, bringing up more of that unholy muck. He shuddered in revulsion, taking a few steps back. God, what was wrong with him? He’d had his fair share of stomach viruses over the years, but nothing that compared to this. 

“Marcas?”

He turned his head to see Regina standing by the corner of the building. He waved her away with a shaky hand, embarrassed to be seen like this, as he felt himself about to be sick again. He heaved, feeling something rise up in his throat and get stuck there. He gagged and choked, trying to force it up. A few racking coughs managed to dislodge it, and he spat it onto the sidewalk. “What the hell?” he asked himself as he stared at it. For a moment he couldn’t comprehend what he was looking at. Then realization hit with icy clarity. It was a chunk of human flesh. 

His body was racked with another powerful spasm at the thought and he threw up once more. It was thinner than the rest, lurid red with a metallic tang. Like fresh blood. “What the – what - what is happening?” he said aloud, his voice rising an octave in his panic. He shook his head in denial, backing away. 

Regina rushed over to him, “Are you alright?”

He shook his head. “No. No, there’s something wrong. It’s - there’s blood and - and other things. No, don’t go look!”

But Regina was already striding forward. She looked down for a moment before walking back to him, looking disgusted, but not nearly as disgusted as she should.

“There’s no blood.”

“What?”

“You didn’t throw up blood.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t. Go see for yourself.”

With some trepidation, he did. Looking down, he saw only a small amount of mostly clear liquid and the remains of the Communion wafer, exactly what you’d expect from being sick on an empty stomach. Curiously, he walked over to the gutter, but quickly retreated. He hadn’t imagined that, unfortunately.

Regina wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, that first part was disgusting, and I’m going to pretend I never witnessed it. But there’s no blood.”

“Thank you,” he told her. He would prefer to pretend that she hadn’t witnessed it, too.

“How do you feel now?”

He took a deep breath. He was still shaking, and more than a little confused about what had just happened, but other than that, he felt surprisingly well. “Better.”

“Well enough to meet Jefferson for lunch, or did you want me to drop you off at home?” she asked. She stepped forward to press the back of her hand against his forehead. “He told me Grace was sick on Thursday. Maybe there’s something going around.” She shrugged as she let her hand drop. “It doesn’t feel like you’re running a temperature, though.”

“I feel well enough to go meet with Jefferson. I’m not sure I have much of an appetite after that, though. Just give me a minute,” he said, walking back toward the church. She followed him as he made his way back to Father Jones, who was just saying goodbye to the Nolan family. 

“Ah, Mr. Gold, feeling better?” he asked.

He nodded. “Yes, thank you. About that, if you’ll tell me where I can find a hose that might reach to the back street, your sidewalk could use a rinse.”

“Don’t worry about it; our groundskeeper can take care of it. Now, where’s – ah! There he is!” He motioned one of the alter boys over, who handed him a toothbrush travel kit and a bottle of water. “Thank you,” he told the boy, before handing the items over to Marcas. “Thought you might want to get cleaned up.”

“Thank you. But really, I don’t want to trouble your groundskeeper,” Marcas said, embarrassed at someone else being stuck with that mess. “It will only take a minute.”

“Nonsense, I won’t hear of it. I won’t tell him who it was, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“You’d lie, Father?” Regina asked, raising an amused eyebrow.

“Lie? No. I simply won’t volunteer the information. Now go.”

Marcas headed for the bathroom, which was abandoned now, leaving Regina behind to talk to the priest. He brushed his teeth, and then brushed them again for good measure, before tossing the disposable toothbrush into the garbage. He made a mental note to add an extra dollar or two to the collection plate next time. He splashed water on his face, combed his hair, and straightened his tie. Once he was done, he looked as if the past twenty minutes had never happened.

Sipping his water, he made his way back out to Regina. “Father Killian had business to attend to, but he says he hopes you continue to feel better,” she told him. He must have made a face, because she gave him a look. “That’s what he wants to be called. You’re forty-five, not one hundred and forty-five. Stop being old-fashioned.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He smirked, and motioned for her to lead the way to her car. They drove to Granny’s, finding Jefferson and Grace already sitting at one of the tables out front. It was unseasonably warm for October in coastal Maine, approaching 70, and they wanted to take advantage. According to Good Morning Storybrooke’s meteorologist, the first storm of the season was due to hit late Monday night or early Tuesday morning, so the patio was full of people wanting to soak up the sun while it was shining.

They sat down at Jefferson’s table, greeting the both of them as they did.

“Hi, Ms. Mills. Hi, Mr. Gold,” Grace piped up cheerfully. “How’re you?”

“We’re fine,” Regina answered for them. “How’re you? We heard you were sick a couple days ago. Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah, I’m good. I got to go back to school on Friday. We took a field trip to the library!”

“How was it?” Marcas asked. “I didn’t know it was open already.” The library had been in the process of a major remodel for the past couple months, but he hadn’t really kept track of the progress.

“Good! It was the grand reopening on Friday, that’s why we went. They have a new librarian, too!”

“Do they?”

“Yep, Miss Belle! She just graduated from librarian school.”

Jefferson grinned. “I don’t think librarian school is a thing. I think you have to get a Master’s degree from a regular old university.”

“Anyway,” Grace drawled, unimpressed with her father’s interruption. “She just moved back to Storybrooke a few months ago.”

“Belle French?” Marcas asked. “The florist’s daughter?”

“Yeah, that’s the one! She’s really nice, and really pretty,” she said, and then eyed both him and Jefferson speculatively. “Just in case either of you were looking to get back out there.”

Jefferson choked on his iced tea, laughing. “What?”

“I’m just saying. A girl like that doesn’t stay single for long.”

Now they were all laughing. “Oh my God, who are you?” Jefferson teased her. “Is that what kids are learning today? It’s that hippity hop, isn’t it?”

“Da-ad! Don’t be embarrassing!”

“Oh, are you embarrassed? Good! We’re even!”

Grace huffed, but brightened when she saw the Nolans take a table that had just been cleared. “Can I go talk to Emma?” she asked.

“Sure. You want me to order for you?”

“Yeah!” she said, hopping out of her chair and going over to her friend. 

“I thought I had another year or two before she started turning into a teenager,” Jefferson said wistfully, watching her go. “I blame that Emma Nolan,” he added sarcastically. “She’s a bad influence.”

Regina and Marcas gave identical snorts. The Nolans were one of the most straight-laced families in town. And with Mary Margaret as a teacher, and David as a sheriff’s deputy, young Emma didn’t have much choice but to follow in their footsteps. The kid couldn’t sneeze without her parents finding out.

The waitress came over and took their order. Marcas decided to tempt fate and get a side of fries. He still felt alright, and was becoming more and more confident that what happened at the church had been a one off thing. 

The waitress left to put in their order, and they settled into an easy conversation while they waited on their food. The peace was broken after a minute or two by a new voice. “So this is what you’re doing when you decline my lunch invites?”

They all looked up to see Cora Mills standing on the other side of the courtyard gate from their table.

“Mother,” Regina greeted. “We’ve been over this. You know I have lunch with friends after Mass. It’s not my fault you keep trying to invite me over on Sundays. I told you I’m free this Tuesday.”

Cora gave an elegant shrug, “I just don’t see why you can’t skip this every now and then to spend time with your mother. Eating here every week will be the death of you.”

“Well, thank you for your concern,” Regina answered dryly. “Tuesday?”

“I can’t. I’m due to be in court all day.” As she said that, her eyes shifted to Marcas, gaze sweeping over him appreciatively. “I do wish you’d reconsider coming back to us, Marc. Mills & Spencer just doesn’t have the same ring to it that Mills, Spencer & Gold did, don’t you think?”

“I’m not ready to even entertain the notion, let alone give you an answer,” he told her. That was true, in more ways than one. He still didn’t feel ready to dive back into such demanding work. And he certainly wasn’t ready to dive back into a relationship. The ink hadn’t had time to dry on his divorce papers before Cora moved in, inviting him to dinner. He had gone, thinking that she was inviting him as a friend, or to discuss work. It wasn’t until she was inviting him back to her house that he realized his mistake. And he had nearly taken her up on her offer. He couldn’t deny that he found her attractive. She was beautiful and charismatic and full of fire. But it was too soon, he was in too much pain, and he wasn’t sure that what he felt for her was anything more than lust. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them. So he had gone home alone, instead.

“Pity. Mila’s moved on. Why can’t you?”

His heart clenched at her words. “Moved on?” he asked as casually as he could, but it sounded anything but, even to his own ears.

Cora smiled that predatory smile of hers. “Well she has that new job of hers with Far and Away. The issue with her first article came out this month. She does have a way with words. Do you subscribe?”

“No, I’m afraid I’m not the travel magazine type.”

“Hmm. She also started a blog. It seems to be generating a lot of attention, already. I’m sure it will bring in quite a bit of revenue for her on the side.”

“Good for her. Why are you keeping such close tabs on her?”

“I’m not, really. I just like to see people from Storybrooke succeed.”

Their food arrived, and Cora continued, “Well, I’ll leave you to your meal. Marcas, my offer still stands. Regina, my dear, I’ll check my calendar and get back to you about lunch. Pleasant afternoon.” And with that, she strolled off down Main Street.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t notice how you two were looking at each other, so I don’t throw up,” Regina told him, picking the pickle off her plate and dropping it into his basket of fries.

“I wasn’t looking at her any way,” he claimed, only to be met with a thin-lipped, unimpressed stare.

“You looked like you wanted to eat each other,” Jefferson said without looking up from his phone, which he had taken out midway through their chat with Cora.

“I just want to offer you a friendly piece of advice,” Regina said. “I love my mother, but I watched her suck the life out of my father for years. Don’t make the same mistake he did. Also you don’t date your friends’ mothers. It’s unseemly.”

“We’re friends through your mother,” he reminded her.

“That doesn’t make it better! Just don’t!”

“I wasn’t planning to!”

“Good!”

Grace popped back to the table long enough to ask if she could take her food and eat with Emma, and Jefferson agreed distractedly, scoffing at whatever he was reading as she happily grabbed her plate of chicken fingers and went off to rejoin her friend.

“Please tell me you aren’t looking up her blog,” Regina said to Jefferson.

“Oh come on. You can’t pretend that you aren’t at least a little bit curious. I’m taking one for the team.”

“How noble of you. So how is it?”

Marcas frowned and focused on the task of pouring ketchup over his fries. 

“Half travel blog, half journey to find herself, all written like she believes herself to be the second coming of Elizabeth Gilbert.”

“Does she mention me?” Marcas asked grudgingly.

“Ah-ha! I knew you were curious, which is why I went looking so you wouldn’t have to,” Jefferson said, looking proud of himself. “She does mention you, but only in her first post. Not by name, and nothing disparaging, so don’t worry; you’re not being dragged through the mud. And you’re welcome.”

He put away his phone with a flourish and declared, “But now the time has come to speak of happier things!” The tension broken by his theatrics, they returned to their previous conversation, putting Cora and Mila out of their minds.

-<>\--<>\--<>\--<>\--<>\--<>\--<>\--<>\--<>\--<>\--<>\--<>\--<>\--<>\--<>\--<>\--<>\--<>\--<>\--<>\--<>\--<>\--<>\--<>\--<>-

The following afternoon, Marcas decided to run some errands before the storm hit. He topped off his car with gas before hitting up the hardware store for some new batteries, firewood, and some candles. 

The grocery store was next. He stocked up on bottled water, canned soup, bread, and peanut butter. Then he gathered everything he would need to make himself a stew. The store was full of people who all had the same idea, the checkout lines absurdly long, but finally he was able to purchase his items and make it out of there. Outside the door sat the panhandler, dozens of people completely ignoring him as they came and went. Marcas felt terrible for the man, so he stopped to give him $20 and ask him if he had a place to stay when the storm hit.

The man shook his head sadly. “The shelter is full for the night,” he claimed. 

Marcas frowned. He didn’t even realize Storybrooke had enough homeless to fill the shelter, honestly. He stood there in awkward silence for a moment, debating what he should do. Finally, he came to a decision. “You can stay with me, if you’d like, until the storm passes.”

“You’re inviting me into your home?” the man asked incredulously.

Marcas nodded. He knew he was taking a risk, but it wasn’t as though he really had anything left to lose. 

The man stood and extended a hand, which Marcas shook. “Well thank you! And you can call me Zee.”

“Zee it is,” Marcas agreed, happy to finally have a name for the man, even if it was obviously just a nickname.

They loaded the groceries into the car, and then he drove Zee back to his house. Zee insisted on helping to bring the groceries into the house, and then Marcas got out a fresh set of towels and rummaged through his dresser drawers, coming up with a pair of sweatpants, a t-shirt, and an old hooded sweatshirt from his Cornell days. He offered the items up to Zee. “You can take a shower while I make up the guest bedroom, if you like. The clothes might be a little short on you, but not by much.”

“I’m sure they’re fine. Thank you,” Zee said, heading for the bathroom. Marcas took a set of sheets and a few blankets from the linen closet and made up the bed in the spare bedroom.

Once that was done, he made up the fireplace in case he wanted to build a fire later, then gathered up all the flashlights in the house and changed out their batteries. He set candles out in each room, and then set to prepping the vegetables for the stew. The sky was beginning to darken, too early for night to be falling, and he looked out the window to see dark clouds rolling in. It looked like the storm was going to hit sooner rather than later, and he felt pretty good about his decision to shelter Zee for the next night or two. 

Zee walked into the kitchen carrying his clothes in a bundle. As predicted, Marcas’ clothes weren’t a perfect fit, but they were serviceable. “Hi,” Marcas said. “If you want to finish chopping up these vegetables, I can put your clothes in the wash and get that out of the way now just in case the power goes out later.”

Zee nodded and handed over the bundle. Marcas took the clothes to the laundry room and made quick work of tossing them into the machine. Going back to the kitchen, he cooked up a roux and browned the meat while Zee finished up the vegetables, and they had the stew simmering away by the time the first rains began to fall.

By the time they had cleaned up, Zee’s clothes had finished washing and they threw them in the dryer before moving to the living room, where they watched some ridiculous horror movie until the stew was ready. They talked for a long time over dinner. Zee mostly wanted to know more about Marcas. Marcas tried to get him to talk about himself, but all he really managed to get out of him was that he wasn’t from Storybrooke and that he used to be a soldier. Marcas supposed he wasn’t surprised he didn’t want to talk about that part of his life, so he didn’t argue when Zee steered the conversation back to him. 

“So this Dr. Hopper thinks you need closure?” Zee asked, as they cleared away the dishes.

“Well, we did figure out that my not getting to say goodbye properly is one of the things holding back my progress,” Marcas agreed, wondering for not the first time why it was so easy to talk to Zee when he had so much trouble opening up to others. “But since that’s never going to happen –”

“What if it could?”

“What?”

“What if you could talk to him again? What if you could say goodbye?”

“That’s impossible.”

“Is it?”

“What are you even suggesting? A Ouija board? Niall wanted one of those things, once, but Mila and I both agreed we didn’t want something like that in the house.”

Zee shrugged. “A Ouija board is the easiest method of going about that sort of thing, but if you don’t have one, I guess that’s out. There are other ways, though.”

Marcas shook his head. “Not interested,” he said, as he filled the sink with soapy water and began scrubbing the bowls.

“No? Not even if it gets you what you so desperately want?”

Marcas was silent for several long minutes as he continued to wash the dishes. Finally, he asked, “If not a Ouija board, then what?”

“We can use you as a channel to communicate with him.”

“Me? Why not you? Wouldn’t that make more sense, if I’m the one who wants to speak to him?”

“I’m not a psychic.”

“Well neither am I.”

“No. You do have a strong connection to him, though. That will make trying to contact him easier. We can try automatic writing. You can write down the things you want to say to him, and then he can write his response. You can even keep the page for posterity, and look back at it whenever you like.”

“This is a pretty cruel joke, if you’re just trying to have a laugh to pass the time.”

“That’s not what this is, I promise you. I just want to help.”

“Have you ever done anything like this before?”

“I do have some experience with this sort of thing, yes.”

“What do we need?”

The electricity chose that moment to shut off, causing Marcas to jump as the room was plunged into darkness. He fumbled around on the counter for a flashlight, turning it on with a nervous laugh. 

“Should I take that as a sign this is a bad idea?” Marcas asked.

“Not at all, it’ll just add to the ambiance. We’ll need this,” Zee said, lighting a candle. “We’ll also need a piece of paper, a pen, and if you have something of his, that would help.”

Marcas gathered up the pen and paper, then retrieved Niall’s Cub Scouts shirt from his room. Moving back to the kitchen table, he sat on one side while Zee sat on the other, the candle between them. He set the shirt down beside the candle, and the pen and paper in front of himself.

“Just write down everything you want to tell him.”

So Marcas did, pouring out his heart onto the page, letting his son know that he loved him, that he missed him, that he was so very sorry that he wasn’t able to save him. He told him that he was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and that he hoped that he was safe and happy wherever he was. When he finished, he looked back up at Zee.

“Alright, now you just need to clear your mind. Focus on the candle flame. Think of nothing but your son. Imagine yourself calling to him. Invite him to speak through you.”

Marcas stared into the flame, trying to still his mind. He tuned out the wind howling through the trees outside, and the rain beating against the roof, and the noise in his own head. He thought only of his son. 

“Good. Relax. Let go.”

He continued to watch the flickering of the candle, pen poised over the page, waiting, falling deeper into a trance-like state. He felt something brush up against his mind, a presence in his head that was not his own, and his instinct was to pull back.

“No. Shhhh. Let it happen. Let me in.”

Marcas blinked, some of the haze that had clouded his mind clearing. “What?’

“I said let him in.”

“I-”

“If you push him away now, he won’t return. Clear your mind.”

Marcas hesitated. In the back of his mind, he knew something didn’t feel right about this. But he wanted to believe, needed to say goodbye to his son properly, and so he cleared his head. It was easier this time, slipping back into that trance. The foreign presence returned, a gentle, questioning nudge, and this time he didn’t pull away. And then, suddenly, it was everywhere, in him and around him, flooding his mind with darkness. He gasped, dropping the pen as everything went black.


End file.
